


Cheat Code

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Darkness, Explicit Language, Medical Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Multi, Poison, Post-Apocalypse, This is gonna be one hell of a ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-21 23:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: In this world, all the rules have died, and the columns of the destroyed morality have been covered with earth. In this world, kill or be killed - the third is taken from birth, and only a few lucky can find a way out of the cycle. This world lies under the sediment of black fog, the clocks here froze like ominous guards, and if you manage to turn around in time, you could see shadows smiling from outside the windows.But every night someone lights their lantern and dispels the darkness; in hope of finding those whose souls still shine with silver.(on some kind of hiatus??? idk???)





	1. i. the future is now

**Author's Note:**

> \- chapters titles are The Offspring's songs (and yes, every song has something to do with the chapter's content, kinda). however, the main title is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEGJekPQdl4).  
> \- actually, we have very few official pairings, so you can ship whatever you want. everyone will suffer.
> 
> wish me luck, amen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two Lightkeepers find a sudden headache.

Virginia didn't know when had it all started, and if she was asked – could not remember. But the day it all ended was saved in her memory with a bleeding shard of glass. The school was crowded with children, their sonorous voices were cutting through the hot summer air, penetrating from the wide-opened windows. She seemed to be teaching Japanese – melodic voice calling the students to attentiveness; dressed in a favorite floral skirt. In the middle of a lesson and all of a sudden, a fire-alarm breathtaking ringing swept through the building. Only that was no fire. Only running out of the classroom and anxiously looking out for any nuisances, Virginia saw only a falling, blazing helicopter. And then the ground under her feet shook and she clutched to the door jamb, hearing the frightened cries of the pupils behind. All this was surreal. All this was wrong – and having reached the epicenter of the incident, she was convinced of this. On a pilot's place was only a black, charred corpse; a small cargo in the form of boxes with a viscous ink liquid tipped over a wrenched concrete floor. And the only passenger – a thin man with a burnt cheek – was sitting at the effluent potion, dipping his fingers into and _licking_ it off. All to the rest. When he'd noticed Virginia's stunned glance, he bent his head in an unnatural position, crunching his vertebrae and looking at her with blackish, shrouded eyes. He wanted to… jump? She wanted to scream.

But the next moment she was thrown back by a powerful explosion.

 

Virginia Ito opened her eyes sharply, grabbing the edge of the blanket with her fingers and jumping on the bed. Her heart was still pounding, but dancing on the ceiling, faint sun rays reminded her that it was just a nightmare. Regular. One of many for all these long years.

Sighing and doomedly throwing off her feet of the comfortable bed linens, Virginia reached for a little table and took her simple black hairpin, with one deft movement piercing the hair strands that were falling apart over her shoulders. Clothes lay here, very close – not that she could change her wardrobe so often. In such abandoned apartments like this one, maybe there still was something left – but quite often it was unsuitable because of swarming insects inside. To even find a pair of clean jeans was a huge rarity. And of course, you could have only dreamed of dresses.

Slipping to the discreetly boarded-up window – though with half-fallen planks – Ito, out of habit, ran her fingers over the bulging nails. Someone did it. Someone was hiding here before her and she absolutely didn't want to think about this, but couldn't get rid of intrusive thoughts. Someone, perhaps a frightened teenager with black bruises on his hands; someone, perhaps a starving hermit, little by little biting off pieces of his own flesh; someone, perhaps a family with children, dreaming of finding a shelter, but only getting a howl at night. And now she was the one who was hiding here. And she had to accept it.

This tiny bedroom was leading straight into the kitchen – it was a little more spacious and obviously had served as a living room in the past; and that where the woman went. The window here was boarded-up denser so the reigning semi-darkness was involuntarily making to shiver. But it was a day, and this place was completely habitable – so there was nothing to be afraid of. Virginia looked at the stove and sniffed with displeasure. Apparently, apart from her, no one was going to make breakfast. But of course. Why even the brave knights with stupid steampunk goggles…

“Oi, you're awake!”

… need to eat? Ito threw a gloomy glance at the coming out of his room partner and raised an eyebrow impressively. Archer pursed his lips – deliberately guilty, but sly sparks were still dancing in his green eyes. Having thrown another mechanism – with which the former watchmaker liked to play at leisure – on the kitchen table, he swam to the shelves and flung open the doors. Peering out of his shoulder Virginia noted that the products were coming to an end. And not only they.

“We need to move to another place,” she muttered morosely, pouring water from the plastic bottle into the saucepan and placing it on the burner. One click of the tap of the gas cylinder, one slight stroke of the lit match – and the liquid gradually began to boil.

“We need to _find_ this another place first.” Archer handed her the eggs left in the plastic box, shrugging along the way. “You know, I'm not really attracted to the idea of staying outside in the darkness.”

Virginia gently shoved him with her hip. She remembered that at first, she had been avoiding any gestures that could've expressed friendliness and love. Didn't want to be attached. Not after what she saw and not after whom she lost. But it so happened that in the end, Archer became a family; Archer became an indispensable, disgusting idiot-comrade, and she couldn't imagine her life without him. She didn't want to.

“Come on, you're the Lightkeeper,” she teased, throwing the eggs into the pan one by one. It was interesting – did people still believe in these silly tales? However, you've always had to have a hope, right? So the answer was obvious. “Besides, we have almost run out of gas.”

And that was a problem. Without gas, all they could eat was the unfortunate handful of the remaining canned fish, hidden away on the farthest shelves for a very extreme case. No, of course Virginia did know how to make a fire, and she could cook something without the help of the 'modern' technologies (so as Archer, to be truly honest, too, as he never hid behind his partner's slender legs). But only here, by the chain, was following already another problem – strictly speaking, there were very few products left for cooking, and the nearest unripe and undestroyed shop was two blocks from their shelter. The days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer, and the town in which they stayed – despite all its calm, compared to the big cities – was unsafe. Ito wasn't pleased with the idea of taking risks… but she was even more scared off by the thought of staying here to _nail down_ the windows.

Archer smeared his finger on his chin and took off the saucepan from the stove while snapping fingers in front of partner's nose. She instantly twitched and put out the fire. Sometimes thoughts were too deep. She was always afraid that at some moment it would turn out to be fatal.

“Then let's start to quietly scour the remains of the town,” Archer said, throwing eggs on a plastic caps that replaced them plates. “If anything – just straightly look for places when we can spend a night. Well, you know,” he licked his thumb and returned the pan to its proper place. “If we won't have time to return here.”

Virginia threw a foggy look at his disheveled hair and moved away the chair, sitting down at the table. The plan was good.

 

However, she didn't remember the name of the town. Names, in general, had an extremely weak value now – they couldn't be eaten, they couldn't be drunk, and in the pursuit of the resources for survival, the spiritual side of the matter is quickly forgotten. It was _the_ _town_. If even somewhere was mentioned its name, Virginia had obviously missed it past the eyes. Snow globs in the souvenir shops were broken for a long time, and the only place that was selling maps – as if by the deepest irony – was burned down. Their own map did not give the name of the town, but what it did give was that they were in the north of England. It was unnerving. Once, in the first year, Virginia had heard that in Scotland everything was really bad. Since then, she hadn't sought to go there.

And shaking off the ashes from the boots, she thought that maybe she hadn't sought for anything at all already. Their small shelter – someone's former apartment – was placed in a quite low building, and, according to calculations, somewhere on the third floor; if be counted from the very first that had gone underground. The yard was small and plain, all that was left here remarkable – an old, knotty tree, surely coal colored. This area wasn't a dormitory but obviously wasn't close to the center, too. Virginia always noticed a tall library building around the corner but feared to approach it. The windows there were lined with bars. Which meant it was always dark inside. And despite the fact that Shadows were hiding in the buildings rarely, it wasn't worth a risk. She wouldn't have found there anything but old, dusty books. She had enough of her own small collection. Must have had enough.

Archer jumped to the ground next to her and straightened a hunting rifle behind his back. Though weapons did not help much in the new world, this guy didn't tire of repeating that _with_ was always calmer than _without_. Furthermore, if he had left the gun in the lost home, his decedent grandfather would've returned from the dead to kill the negligent grandson. In their family, it was passing on from generation to generation and therefore was a priceless trophy.

“Sooo, are you ready?” he chuckled, throwing a quick glance at his partner.

She rolled her eyes almost fleetly, but so he'd notice – and rushed forward first. Archer hurried after her, tinkling the lantern hanging from his belt. Virginia took hers too. She had clearly timed in which hour they had to turn back to get home until the dark, but one cannot be too careful. The nameless town met them with a weak sunlight from behind black clouds, and gloomy splinters of the houses. It looked, however, much better than many small towns which Ito had visited before. This one was abandoned, but the poisoned nature hadn't managed to take its own yet, and the buildings were only half destroyed. You could hide in such a nice place for quite a long time. In spring or summer. But the rights had recently passed to Fall, the cold kept growing day by day, and the Shadows became more active. Virginia shivered and shuffled her foot on the shards of glass on the asphalt, looking back at the former antiques' shop. Seemed like once long ago she had dreamed of buying an exquisite armchair of Victorian times.

Archer, meanwhile, went further along the alleys, and Virginia's sixth sense realized that today he'll be trying to get to the center of the town at any cost. They had already seen it – with one glimpse. But hadn't really explored anything, preferring not to protrude from their haven.

“Listen… Did you think about-” The watchmaker started when the woman caught up with him, but Virginia cut short this phrase:

“I did. And we've even talked about that. We won't go to London.”

“But you have never ever been there, even!” Archer hissed irritably. “Besides, you yourself heard the stories...”

The lane widened and the main square appeared ahead. Virginia Ito winced – the asphalt under her feet unpleasantly crunched, as it was covered with ashes. Turning at last, she threw:  
“You said it. These are just _stories_. So better let's close this topic. Again.”

 

Before sunset, they had time to explore all the central part of the town and were confirmed in the conjecture that it was quite small. There was no tourist center, though maybe from it were left only bricks near the pavement. The location was difficult to determine. In any case, both knew that it was necessary to move to the south. And only to the south.

When the sun began to go down over the thin horizon's line, visible beyond the low tiled roofs and knotty trees' branches – Virginia silently signaled to return. Her hand reached out to the lever of the lantern, fingertips touched it. It was _quiet_ here. And she wasn't used to quietness. So all of a sudden, when her left foot stepped on the cracked asphalt at the entrance to the already lightless, narrow alley; all of a sudden, feeling the overturned insides; all of a sudden, Archer shouted something and rushed back. Virginia turned in the same direction – a second later she was already running after her partner, trying to understand what had happened.

The watchmaker then abruptly stopped and Ito almost crashed into him but managed to slow down. Turning her head to properly yell at him (whispering), the woman noticed something on the ground. But rather, someone. Someone with a messy mop of chestnut hair, bloody wound on the right side and-

“A number? On the wrist? T's something new,” Archer muttered, leaning over the body and touching the neck with fingers.

Though Virginia had already noted that they were alive, by the weakly rising and falling chest. She tramped nearby, suddenly lost in thoughts. She and Archer hadn't seen other people for a very long time, maybe for last three months. Moreover, she couldn't believe that they hadn't visited this alleyway before. So how the hell did this human end up here?

“How did they get here?” _And how did you notice them?_

Her partner shrugged.

“I dunno. But they're clearly not for long here – even the blood hasn't dried up yet.”

“Are they poisoned?” Ito frowned, yet bending over the body and taking their left wrist in her hand. 911.

Archer shook his head, surveying the stranger with a hasty gaze. Virginia knew that for him the degree of poisoning was had always staying at the last place. It was reckless – to help even the dying, crumbling infected – but it was Archer in whole.

“I don't think so… Virgie, we'll take them to us, right?”

“As if you'd let me leave them here,” the woman breathed out, catching a wide smile in response.

She straightened, taking the stranger under the shoulders; Archer grabbed their legs, and together they lifted them. Virginia swallowed, looking around. It was a sudden – a second ago the split stones under their feet were painted with orange rays of the sun, now was reigning only twilight. God, they hadn't been fussing around this body for so long, devil got it-

A hardly audible rustling (and clattering?) cut short thoughts in her head with scissors. Ito turned to the sound. Ahead was laying only a grayish dusk, nothing special. It's just that the goodly-trained in the new world eye caught a barely noticeable shadow under the cornice of one house. And it was moving.

Virginia sharply shoved the foundling on Archer's shoulder, making her partner to grunt in surprise.

“What are yo-”

“We're getting out of here and quickly,” she muttered, grabbing the watchmaker's arm and dragging after herself, groping the lever of the saving lantern, feverishly figuring out how to get to the shelter as quickly and safely as possible. To the God, though and temporary, cold and dull, but home.

“They'll lose more blood then!” Archer, however, moved after her without much resistance, repositioning the stranger's body more comfortably and wincing.

“Otherwise we will all die together!” Virginia snapped.

The darkness seemed to be chasing after them – onward could still be seen a weak, golden strip in the sky. At some moment, Virginia stumbled and drove down the crumbled ground, but stood on her feet and rushed into the arch between the houses. They were almost there. She just has to choose the right direction. Archer stopped behind her back, panting and puffing. She just has-

There was heard a hoarse whistling, but she had already had time to untwist the lever of that very lantern.


	2. ii. can't repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn something about the whole new world.

_Red lightning floods rooms and corridors, cutting eyes. A desperate howl of a siren hits the ears – a little more and blood will flow. The automatic door suddenly opens wide, and someone clings to his sleeve, pulling him out. People here are hustling, screaming and scratching the walls with their nails – their faceless faces merge into a white mass. He squeezes into the corner and clamps his ears with hands; it's all too unbearablyterriblyrevoltingly loud. He's found here, too: this man has a strange uniform (a security guard?) and he pushes him into a hall with a low ceiling and flashing gates far ahead. Here is the crowd, this crowd is frightened and angry – it tries to get to the detectors at the exit, but only shoves, tumbles and shouts endlessly. At a certain moment, the guard is pushed off; by the next, on his split-open skull steps someone's foot. He's sick. He wants to vomit and he needs to look for a way out of all this madness, but a thought strikes his head with a knife. He tries to find familiar eyes – a familiar bun of raven hair, familiar narrow shoulders and a familiar birthmark under the lip. And then her voice emerges from insanity and cacophony and he notices her almost at the exit, and he wants to run to her and hug her and get out of here together, but_

_At the last moment, he only has time to notice the horror in her pale green eyes – and then everything plunges into the darkness._

 

So he woke up. The nerve endings on the fingers were the first to react – a small shiver ran through his hands. A second later he managed to open his eyes. The vision was immediately shrouded by a pleasant shade – repulsed somewhere on the retina of the eye, red flashes gradually brightened and disappeared. Poured with lead eyelashes fluttered, a sharp pain dug in the side; and he took a convulsive inhale, sitting up abruptly. The head, immediately and angrily, responded with a whirling, which contributed to the desire to puke the innards. Instinctively, he pulled up his knees to the chest and covered his face with hands, breathing deeply and calming an arrhythmically fast heartbeat; the side was still pricking, but not as much as… before?

When ninety beats were replaced by eighty, he slowly raised his head and flapped his eyes, focusing the sight. Under the feet in dirty leather boots, was a cloth – something like a blanket. The very room in which he was left was very tiny and empty: only black walls, a chest of drawers in the corner and a small, nailed down window. The sun didn't pervade here.

He licked his dry lips and stared blankly at the ceiling (there were no chandelier – only bare, absurdly protruding wires). What happened? Where is he? Why is it so quiet and so dark?

_In the ward, someone once told him that darkness should be feared feared feared, for it carries death, tears muscles and body and flesh, crushes bones and gobbles up life._

A tremble ran through the body, but he only hugged his knees tighter and shook his head, involuntarily causing a new light dizziness. Everything will be good. Everything will be fine. He just had to remember… At least who he is. Starting with clothes was worth. Nearby the blanket was lying a green jacket – it was torn in some places, stained with spots of red paint (blood?) and smelled smog at the junction with metal. There was something in one of its pockets, but, reaching for this something, he recaught a spike in the right side and curled into a ball. When the pain subsided, he glanced in the direction of its appearance and with an absent fright stared at the large blood stain. The fabric of his white shirt was torn in this place, the skin was covered with bandages. Memory helpfully suggested that he himself couldn't have done it. So that someone could. Someone brought him here. And if they wanted to kill him, hardly would've bandaged. This thought calmed… not too much.

He reached for the jacket again – this time much more cautiously, anticipating the spiky needles of pain. Groped the left pocket, slipped to it with his hand and took out a small object. The object that was a round copper pendant with a tiny protruding button on the side. Delineating it with fingers, he realized that it wasn't a button – rather a knob, pulling at which you could view it better. And acting more on instincts than the mind, tasting a creaking flavor of memories on the tongue; he spun it clockwise. Music flowed: quiet, sorrowful, beautiful, familiar. Shifting the gaze from the pendant down his own hand, he noticed tiny ink symbols and stopped playing sharply. He did not remember this. He did remember this. He carefully tucked up a sleeve and read 911.

 **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**  [*](https://www.base64decode.org/)

The door opened and a woman appeared on the threshold. Henry jerked as if from a blow – the music box fell out of his hand and hit the floor with a melodic ring.

 

Her name was Virginia. Henry blinked, watching as she pushed back the chair, sitting down beside. He was taken to a small, cozy room – apparently, it served as something middle between the kitchen and the living room. There was a little more light, although it was mostly emanated from the oil lamp standing in the center of a small round table. On one of the walls – the one that was next to his former room – was hanging a wall clock. It was _ticking_.

“So you're saying your name i-is...” the man drawled, leaning against one of the kitchen stands. He introduced himself as Archer. Henry somehow noted his shaggy hair and unusual, old goggles. Hadn't seen such things for a very long time.

“Henry,” he muttered, twirling a musical pendant in his hands.

“Henry,” the guy repeated, staring at him thoughtfully. “A-and that's all?”

“All.” He wasn't sure of his last name. To be completely honest, he wasn't sure of anything. In the head was only a black noise, obstinately hiding any memories. All he knew now – his name is Henry. And he was trying to get to someone very dear.

 _Tick-tack_.

“So, Henry...” Virginia clasped her hands in the lock, folded them on the table. She looked interested. And alarmed. “What are you doing out here?”

“I don't remember.”

They exchanged glances – almost fleeting, but sufficient to notice. The thought suddenly struck his head – these people terribly trust each other. Too bad he hadn't had anyone whom he could trust.

“But… but do you remember who you are?” Virginia asked again, her eyes even more worried.

Henry hooked up one of the notches on the pendant with his nail, trying to digress from the messy, sketchy flashes of memory in his head. They did not give anything, only caused more pain. He needed to calm down to be able to understand something.

“No.”

“Where does the wound come from?”

“No.”

“Was there someone with you?”

The noise grew stronger for a second, absorbing her last words.

 _Tick-tack_.

“I don't remember.”

“What is that number on your wrist?”Archer spoke, suddenly and loudly.

Something clicked in his head for a second, and he bit his tongue, swallowing, trying to suppress a suddenly rising nausea. Obviously, the face betrayed him – the people who had sheltered him looked at each other again, and then Virginia got up from the table and approached him from behind, almost weightlessly laying her hand on his shoulder; as if verifying whether he'll dodge from touch. He didn't, just winced and swallowed harder.

“Listen, I don't know where did you come from or what had happened to you either, but… At least you don't look like a bandit, killing people for bread crumbs.” She smiled mirthlessly. “So we will take care of you if you'll let us. Your wound should be healed in a week, we have some food and water to wash. You'll be cured and then… we will see. Alright, Henry?”

He nodded weakly.

 _Tick-tack_.

 

It was even a little strange, as if reality was trying to distort in the corners of the eyes. The bathroom turned out to be very tiny, more the bath itself, in which you should have pulled up your legs to fit in. Virginia left him alone with a bowl of warm water and his own thoughts. Not that there were so many.

He had time to examine himself from head to toes – the side was still unpleasantly tingling, but apart from the tattered knuckles on his fingers and a couple of scratches all over his body, there was nothing. Virginia said he should be careful and shouldn't touch the wound; then the bandages have to be replaced. Warily, but with some kind of warm concern she was calling him by the name he still couldn't remember himself.

Henry. He was sure that it's true – someone used to call him so once. From the family name were only chips… Perhaps it began with J. Not important. None of this was important, cause he felt like a gutted doll and was too tired to perceive reality not only through the prism of the noise in the head. Henry reached for the water, recalling a funny fact with the edge of his consciousness – down there, in the laboratories, was a shower.

 

The room in which he woke up now became his, although before it was Archer's. The former owner moved here a folding bed, solemnly giving it to Henry's possession. Except for the pendant, he didn't have any other things, so that it took an honorable place on a single chest of drawers. His jacket and, generally, most of the clothes that he had – soaked in blood and sweat – was categorically thrown out. Virginia said that local clothing stores were looted or destroyed, so it was Archer who had to share his clothes with Henry again. And under the glance of his partner, he, dramatically sighing, had this done, too.

The next morning Henry woke up with a feeling that he had finally had a good sleep. Virginia (Ito) had warned that at night there might be heard howling; and also he'd be also likely tormented by memories – but apparently he was so exhausted that the body decided to make up for its own first. Leaving the room, he found the others at breakfast. Disheveled after sleep Archer waved to him, inviting to sit.

“Sorry, only powdered eggs remained. Normal now are simply unreal to find.” He harrumphed, gulping the contents of his plate. “Those, before, were just some kind of gift. Although I hope they weren't laid by some of these things,” Archer laughed as he rose from the table exactly when Henry decided to sit next.

“Don't you even dare to joke like that.” Virginia cast at him a reproachful but mocking glance.

“And I don't! I don't dare about anything at all!” He raised his hands and backed to another room. “I'll go clean the gun, as my old, evil, grumpy grandpa bequeathed.”  
The woman just snorted at this, shifting sight at Henry, moving to him one of the plates with food. The latter stared at the unpresentable omelet with mixed feelings. Only now he felt that he is, in fact, devilishly hungry. But the desire to ask a thousand and one question coagulated somewhere in his throat like a spiky ball, not letting to stick a fork into the food.

“Archer – is it a name?” he blurted out the first thing occurred to him, struggling with apathy and finally throwing himself on an omelet.

“Ah?.. No, last name.” Ito shook her head. “He never mentioned his name, and I don't think it's important, so...”

“And who he was?”

“A watchmaker.”

“And you?”

“Listen, you'd better eat while you have something to.”

Henry abruptly straightened up in his chair, the left hand twitched for some reason, following a bizarre perverted reflex. Virginia immediately pursed her lips, remorse instantly took possession of her features.

“Sorry. I didn't want to… I was a teacher, taught languages. I just, I just don't like to talk about this, fine?”

He nodded, still cautious, cursing himself for a frigging subconscious fear that it was a threat; and after threats, there is screaming, and after threats, _he's_ the one who screams.

“I'm sorry,” muttered quietly.

Virginia got up from the table, placing her plate in the sink.

“Nothing to apologize for. It isn't your fault… You know, I'd be much more interested in knowing who were _you_.”  
  
But Henry had no answer for this question.

“You know though...” she continued. “Sometimes it's really easier to just forget. Start from scratch. After all, it's much more important,” she sighed and sat down in her chair again, looking at the guest opposite. “Much more important who you are now, not who you were.”

“And who am I now?” Henry echoed her, receiving a soft smile in return.

“Maybe soon you'll find it.”

 

But if he wants to remember something – said Virginia – better to start with simple things. For example, age. And surname. And if the latter still eluded him, hiding somewhere in the depths, the first was remembered relatively easy. The early years had a very vague consistency in his head – but then he probably was twenty-three. And now he has to be twenty-five – Archer had prompted, intervening in their conversation somewhere in the middle of the day. A sudden, important date slipped somewhere on the horizon of his memory. The fourth of August? Perhaps it was the day of someone's birth. Definitely not his.

Surprisingly, the next question was about the world that surrounded them. As it turned out, Henry remembered quite a bit. Strangely enough, all of his knowledge was reduced to the year before Poisoning – and after it, Archer joked darkly, he apparently lived in a bunker. Henry seriously pondered of this, but Virginia waved her hands and drove the watchmaker away. Stealing the dense notebook he had brought, before. It was their diary: with descriptions of the changed flora and fauna, sketches of dilapidated cities, and coal-black silly faces, periodically drawn by Archer's hand. When Henry had taken it to his hands, one of the sheets flew from the inside and he bent down to pick it up, but Ito did it first.

“It's just a picture of a lantern. You don't need it.”

A lantern? Henry faintly remembered something about the lanterns that disperse even the darkest obscurity – but preferred to go deeper into reading.

 

Next day he spent in his room, twirling a music box in his hands and periodically tweaking the knob, listening to the sickly familiar sound of the melody. His memory wasn't falling into black, filled with numbers and pain, holes again; but it hardly became easier. Henry gradually began to remember – and he began to remember his own nature. His fuzzy with fog personality loomed in more and more vivid colors, wide brushstrokes on the canvas. And when the first fragment of his childhood slipped in his head – he reached for it with all his will. And remembered. Raggedly.

He was thirteen. His mother was standing next to him. She was wearing a dark blue dress embroidered with flowers. She was handing him a horn with ice cream inside. And she was smiling. That was the last time she was smiling. There was someone else, too – a little mother's copy with black hair and a dashingly cocked nose. She was six. She was folding her hands on her hips, frowning at him. She smiled always. Even when their little world collapsed. She didn't abandon him even when he had to do terrible things. She said that everything would work out. _For sure. It should happen. You and I will be alright._ She gave him the maternal pendant, with a music box inside. She turned around when he was trying to reach her in the hustle of the people-with-numbers-on-wrists.

How could he forget her?

She's his sister.

 

The sun outside the window was casting the last rays when Henry burst out of his room as if a pack of poisoned dogs was chasing him. Virginia seemed to be preparing dinner; and Archer sulkily laid his head on his hands, folding them on the kitchen table. Apparently, they were discussing something before. Now their faces were turned towards the rushed one.

“I have to find my sister!”

A thick silence hung in the air. Henry had felt a vague desire to reach out and touch it, but didn't manage to occupy himself with such nonsense – Virginia undied first and asked a very concise question:

“What?”

Archer joined it with a stunned look.

“My sister. I have to find her.”

“W-wait buddy, you said that you don't remember anything about yourself, and now we have what – sister?” Archer drawled.

“And where could she be?” Virginia asked suddenly, catching her partner's sidelong glance.

Henry froze. Honestly, he didn't think about this. The more he was focusing on the existence of his sister, the more he remembered her – her scent, her always cold fingers, her tiny birthmark, her hair and her kind eyes. He remembered how they were playing touch-and-run, remembered how they were getting the cat – whom then sheltered – out of the tree, remembered how they were hugging during the thunderstorm, and she was calming him ( _silly you, such an adult, but still afraid_ ). He also remembered reading fairy tales from a tiny book with a leather cover, surrounded by dazzling white walls, counting the minutes before he would be taken away again.

Archer clasped his fingers in front of his nose.

“Earth to Henry.” He stared anxiously into his feverishly sparkling eyes. “Hey, can you sit down?”

But Henry didn't even want to hear about that.

“I have to find my sister. I, I think she's somewhere… she might be somewhere in… London?”

This time the reigning silence was a bit ominous. Virginia's eyes turned into two slits, and she turned away from him, her arms folded over her chest. Archer walked back to the table, clutching to one of the chairs and biting his lip hesitantly, as if he were about to say something, but couldn't make up his mind.

“Look, you do know that soon will come-” he began, but was cut short by Ito:

“It doesn't matter. London is far away. Your wound hasn't healed yet. And you need time to regain your strength. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” She raised an eyebrow inquiringly but continued before Henry could reply. “We don't know who you are. You don't know who you are. I see, the memory comes back to you – but not as quickly as we all would like. And of course I'm sorry, but… How can you know that your sister is still alive? That your memory doesn't play with you? And maybe something happened to her since the last day you've seen her. How could you know it?”

Henry stepped back – all these words painfully dug into his skin, like sterile needles of injectors. She was his sister, she was a part of his soul, she was his little ray of light – he would've understood if she was dead. Ain't it right?

“I have to-”

“We're at the other end of the country!” Virginia suddenly broke into a half-yell, clenching her hands into fists. Archer gave her a quick glance again and straightened, disorderly sweeping his eyes from the partner to the guest. “At the other end of the country that has become a storm center of the fucking global poisoning! I didn't save you so that you can chase people who might no longer be alive!”

“You weren't saving him alone,” Archer interjected, but Virginia merely flashed him a malicious glance and turned abruptly on her heels.

In Henry's head was a noise again. He exhaled sharply, backing to the door and shaking his head. His sister is alive. He must find her. All this time she was the only person close to him, he just had to find her. Archer looked at him – what showed to Henry as a smeared filming – and opened his mouth, but he had already slid into his room, slamming the door.

 

Of course, sleeping was out of the question. Henry was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rustle outside the window. There were probably wandering some of those creatures, whose quick drawings he'd seen in the diary of those who sheltered him. Wild boars with tore out insides. Dogs with empty eye sockets and dripping from the mouth black poison. Maybe so and people. Those thin, black silhouettes with long claws and round toothy mouths. It was disgusting. But didn't cause fear.

From behind the door were coming soft voices – apparently, Archer and Virginia had considered him asleep and decided to discuss the situation. Henry didn't want to eavesdrop. It's a pity he was such an ungrateful patient. But he had to find his sister. And he didn't want to drag the others into this.

So when the night began to flow into the dawn, he jumped off the bed, put a pendant on his neck, scribbled a farewell note on a scrap of paper, crept into the corridor and stuck it to the front door. There was a stand, on it – two lanterns with small mechanical devices and levers. Henry stopped his look at them. One of such would've come in handy. That's only he didn't want to be a thief, so limited himself with only found over there small flashlight on batteries. Also here lay a map with a red mark – apparently, their location. Having mentally traced the route from the nameless town to the capital of England, Henry frowned. He will need supplies. Of course, he'll need supplies, dammit. And a backpack. And fresh bandages – or preferably, first-aid kit. He looked back at the awakening apartments. Virginia and Archer didn't have much food left – they, themselves, had said that they would soon have to move to a new place. Maybe he could've taken a few cans. But it's better to take only one of the backpacks and a flashlight. He can find everything on the way, right? He didn't want to be a burden to these people. They had already done more than he ever deserved.

So in a second, Henry slipped out of the front door.


	3. iii. staring at the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry continues to practice his unusual way to meet new people; so he meets Daryl Dixon.

His day had started just fine. From the very morning cloudy sky had been generously paid off with a squirrel caught in a snare. Poor thing scratched and tumbled, but couldn't escape the fate of being attached to the belt, with its throat cut. Further, better – the water in a plastic bottle that had accumulated from the night after the rain wasn't twirling with blank-ink vortices. So was comparatively clean. It's not that the cleanliness of the water could've affected him somehow – but it's always better to be safe than sorry later. In the shop he had long wanted to inspect, were discovered four more cans of canned meat and a packet of instant food. It was even better than he could have hoped for. Quite suddenly, right in the middle of a sidewalk had been found one of his missing arrows. And it wasn't broken. And who-know-from-where came bird, to which this arrow had immediately left, was so much of a blessing.

So yeah, Edward Hyde's day had started just fine – exactly till the moment when it struck him to admire the wonderful river Tyne; and there, at the collapsed bridge, he found a wonderful stranger. Unconscious.

For some time, Hyde was looking at him with annoyance. Everything was great. Everything was fucking great, but no, of course, his life cannot remain so good for so long. He trampled a little on the spot, and then, with curses through teeth, went to the body. By the appearance it was a young guy – Edward wouldn't give him more than twenty-five – and everything that he had was composed of a tiny pendant around the neck, simple backpack, farcically sticking out of it map, and a rolled away flashlight. And this, of course, was great. But what the hell was he doing here? The sniper's grasping gaze got a tiny black dots from behind the guy's sleeve, and he frowned. Hesitantly swayed from heels to toes, then cursed the whole world again and knelt down.

It was a number. Well of course it was a number – these crappy three numerals didn't want to let him go, even after his fake death, even after escaping from the sterile-white hell. They made him scream and left him to die, and when he tried to forget everything – continued to pursue in a dream and in reality. Just amazing.

He definitely should leave him here. Just leave – the night will come in what? - seven hours, and all this time he just needs to live with a devouring sense of guilt. Nothing unusual. It was even simple. He killed people before. No one of those who'd been spending the days below with him, but still. They were all rogues. They tried to beat him up, so he beat them in revenge. Hyde, of course, had never before given cute little boys to the tearing of the darkness. But it won't be difficult. At all. Yeah, definitely. That's exactly what he'll do.

 

It wasn't the best idea to haul him to the very cathedral. Besides, the sun suddenly appeared from behind the clouds, making Edward hiss and rub his eyes; 'cause he forgot to pick up his glasses again. Idiot. No, surely it occurred to him to wake the man up – but apparently, something definitely unclear happened with him, as he didn't react to the clicks on the nose. Well, at least he was still breathing.

Hyde habitually listened to the swarming in the main nave, bypassing the gates, and turned toward the black entrance. It would be unnecessary to say that he hadn't thought about how he'd drag his new friend up the stairs at all. But managed to cope with this task. When he reached his small stone room, Hyde, without much ceremony, dropped the stranger by the wall and finally – finally! - unbent his back. The buckle of the crossbow unpleasantly dug into his shoulder blades, and he pulled it off irritably. So. In addition to the devil-knows-where-are-you-from experimental subject, he obtained a little of supplies. This should have been enough for another week. Fine, five days. He liked this city, but it was time to consider the option of moving on. To the desired point of his destination was still a hell of a lot of way, the days were getting shorter and soon the never came winter would be changed by something much more terrible.

There was no stained glass, as it was replaced by the usual windows – now, weak rays of light were filtering through them. Hyde had no idea for what this little room could've served earlier, but through it you could go down, as well as come up to the bell tower. Even in his most debauched dreams, he couldn't imagine that he would ever live in a church. And considering what he used to do to earn a living, it was even ironic. _Very_ ironic. However, complaints were banned here, as it was positively one of the most undamaged buildings in the entire city.

Hyde threw at the stranger – or kinda not – a vague glance and hobbled straight to his improvised bed. There were carelessly laying his lovely sunglasses. Traitors.

 

An evening fire with a fried squirrel was, perhaps, the best event for the whole day. Or not – Edward's taste buds were dulling with every week, interest in food was loosening. The prospect of dying of hunger, however, terrified, so he zealously stuffed himself with everything found and caught.

He leaned against the wall, tiredly counting the remaining arrows and bolts. At night, the rustling below became stronger and this prevented of sleep terribly. Who locked these creatures there, in a sanctum? Whose perverted mind came up with the idea of blackening crosses with ink? They were hitting the columns, snapping on benches, and wheezing out all their throats. He would've been glad to go down and cut out all these scums, but the cautious part of the brain with the burning neon “danger” sign always discouraged of this absolutely magnificent undertaking. If the reactions of his brain were spelled out less clearly, he would've managed to do much more

 t̛han s͠ta̡n͜dinģ a͏nd͟ w̧a͏iţing ͞until ͠t҉he̕rę ̸w҉o̷n't ͡b̡e a̡n͠y̨ p̨ie͏ce o̵f ̴f̨les̢h ͜le͜ft͏ ͠of hi͜m̴;͞ ̛and̡ ͟u͏ntil s̵he͞ ͟w̛on't b̛urn̨ a҉live ̴i͠n҉ a̶ t͜i̷ny barn̕ ̡in the̕ ̨m͠i͝d͞d̸le of̕ a̸ wh͡eat̵ f͜i̸el͏d.͏ T̷hey̸ ͢e̛ntr͝us͝t̕ed ͏h̷im the͟ir ͟l͢ives̷ an͡d ̛s͝av̡ed f͡ro҉m the re͢d͟-hot̴ i͞r̴on͜ on ̵t̢he̕ wris͠t, b̕u̧t he betraye͢d the̷m̢ ̨and fl̸e̢d ļikȩ a͘ c̛ow͟ąrd͜.̨

Edward rubbed his temples and snorted – himself knew perfectly well that sometimes it was necessary to survive at any cost, and therefore there was nothing to be sniveling for. From the corner of his eye, he caught the movement from the side and turned his head, watching as his unexpected - but what's now - guest rose on his elbows and slowly blinked. It took him a couple of seconds to notice the fire, and then the man who build it. Although he obviously wasn't going to talk first – just hunched over and grabbed his knees with his hands, carefully measuring the blond.

“Finally came to your senses, sleeping beauty. I didn't even expect anyone from below, I heard about the explosion though,” he said, laying down his arrows and reaching for the fried squirrel.

Stranger's gaze became even more cautious (how it could be even more?). If Edward would have less cold in the blood, he would be fit to be offended. Without him, this dumbhead would've been torn into a few pieces. Yeah, exactly. Dumbhead.

“From below?” gave a voice so unfairly nicknamed lad.

Hyde narrowed his eyes. Something here was clearly unclean. And, speaking truth, he didn't really want to figure out what.

“Yeah. In the labs. Well, you know. In our comfortable home.”

“W-wait, you know something about laboratories?”

The ill-fated squirrel slipped out of Hyde's hands and he cursed, picking her up off the floor, almost burning dead animal with eyes of hatred. Something flashed outside the window – he noticed it barely and turned the head sharply, but it, apparently, was just a poisoned bird. He had found them, a whole nest in one of the districts, so wasn't really surprised by the whisper of wings at night. Turning away from the window, he threw a glance at the ruffled man and remarked with surprise that he cringed even harder. What's wrong with him? Ah, yeah. Exactly. Edward snorted again and shook his head.

“Don't fidget, I won't eat you.”

“You just turned your head with a second speed, and almost on 180 degrees,” the guy stated quietly, staring at him with his rounded eyes. “And you didn't answer.”

“And you want to tell me you don't know about the labs? Honestly?” Hyde raised an eyebrow ironically, but, apparently, the stranger wasn't here for his irony.

He nodded.

“Who hurt you?”

Edward did not even have to fake a surprise in his voice – it was so obvious that crashed unpleasantly in his ears. He hissed, glancing sideways at the squirrel. Firstly, from this conversation he had already lost his appetite. Secondly, he wasn't going to get involved in all this shit. Not for that he saved dumbhead, to scamper over him.

“I-I think I've lost my memory,” he answered.

Great. What a lucky man. How did he get so lucky? Actually, who cares. It's not his business. He didn't want to have anything to do with this. He'd been running away from this long enough and didn't intend to stop for a breather. Even if someone had lost their memory.

Edward involuntarily clung to his own wrist.

“Great. Listen, I've just remembered I was terribly tired. A-and it's not my funeral, so… Say thanks for picking up. I'm going to sleep,” he babbled in exhalation, turning his back to the foundling, and curling up on the bed, his back feeling a warm rocking flame.

“W-wait, but-”

“I'm going to sleep!” Hyde snapped; initially feeling a wonderful palette of emotions (fear) when the boy twitched from his words and quietly harrumphed.

Now he also offended him, fantastic. And scared. And generally behaved like the last idiot on earth. Well, what can he do. He _is_ an idiot. Shouldn't start this conversation at all.

“Ah, but can I-”

No, you can't. Hyde pulled a middle finger behind his back and vividly imagined how this guy rolled his eyes. Heck no, he can forget about his honestly caught squirrel.

 

He woke from a barely audible fuss in the far corner of the room. And immediately jumped up, sharply stretching his hand to the crossbow nearby, groping for the weapon with his fingers. When sight had finally focused, Hyde looked around his shelter; and with a suddenly awaken grim discontent noticed the presence of his guest. The latter cast at him a quick glance and muttered:

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

He was rummaging in his backpack, hastily sorting something inside. Hyde fell back on the sheets with a groan – it would've been much better if he'd dreamed it, dear God – then got up and sat down, involuntarily rubbing his eyes.

“Why the hell are you still here?”

A surprised look flew to him at response – and where else do you think should I be? The brunet clearly already had time to feel himself at home.

“The sun is up, you can get out,” Hyde cut off, standing on his feet.

So. Fine. He needs to focus on a further plan. If he planned to leave this place – then it'd be necessary to move further en route as soon as possible. There were too many names of unfamiliar cities on the horizon. Yes, he heard that the whole England can be crossed with no more than a few days. But he was on foot, damn. Therefore, innerly put in the plan “find a car”. Even though it was possible hardly – most cars, abandoned on the roads, were mutilated by nature, Shadows or simply out of order. Gasoline came across even rarer – and if it came, there was very little of it. He had fifteen more arrows left, and a few more original bolts, if saving that'd be enough for two weeks. He could make new ones, only firstly he must find normal trees. No, of course he could try and make from poisoned ones. Just-

“I'm Henry.”

“Yup.”

-to be honest, he wasn't sure if they were safe for him.

“I'm trying to find my sister.”

“Congrats. I don't give a fuck,” Hyde mumbled through his teeth, tightening the rubber band on his bag.

Henry blinked. But swallowed it, nonetheless.

“I think she's in London.”

Oh God, no. Just not there. Okay, Hyde, calm down. You probably froze for a good five minutes.

“And?”

And, as if he was waiting for this moment to come, he pulled out a battered sheet from behind his bosom, in which Hyde found that very map. Well, that he'd seen before.

“Help me.”

It must be with the church and this nonsense, he truly looked like a guardian angel for all kinds of dumbheads – otherwise, the arrogance of this guy cannot be explained by any existing forces on the earth.

 

Henry didn't fall behind. Henry put his half-empty backpack on his shoulder, grumbled with his stomach (rising with a wave sense of guilt had to be shut up), and tailed behind him. Hyde was stubbornly avoiding turning to him, jumping over the ruins of the old part of the city and sparkling with black sunglasses. The sun, as luck would have it, disappeared behind the clouds again. Tyne lurked gloomily on the background of the destroyed skyscrapers on the other shore. The remains of the collapsed bridges rose from it like centuries-old blocks. It was hard to believe that this all happened only a couple of years ago. The world had changed bloody fast.

From gloomy-philosophical thoughts, he was distracted by the rumble behind his back and a loud “ah!”. Edward almost put his hand to his forehead, turned around and saw his annoying fellow-traveler trapping his foot into an unhealthy big crack. Trying to pull out the ill-fated limb, he had only fallen down on the asphalt and, it seemed, broke his lip. Amen.

“You want to kill yourself before your due, huh, dumbhead?” Edward asked a very rhetorical question, coming up to the ruffled guy, curled into a ball and wiping the blood from his face. “Lemme see.”

He had no first-aid and that was perhaps the most reckless part of the recklessness of Edward Hyde. The idea of dragging behind a mountain of 'useful' stuff did not really appeal to him. A dear black crossbow was the only thing he needed to survive. Even without arrows. Though it wasn't very convenient to use it as a bat.

“I'm fine,” Henry bleated, dismissing hands of the blond man, who was attacked by a sudden spasm of care; clearly in order to him to put them on his chest, almost insulted.

“Look, I didn't sing up to be your nanny. Go your own way, as they say...”

“But I don't know where to go!” The man sniffed, quite childishly burying his nose in his lap.

Edward blinked. Rubbed the bridge of his nose irritatedly and suppressed an outwarding groan of hellish torment.

“Fine, get your map here.”

Henry instantly revived – for a moment all of that seemed to Hyde as only a very cunning manipulation – and took out of his backpack a painted piece of paper. The crossbowman took it with skepticism, trying scrapes and roughness with his fingers.

“Dear God, where did you get this relic?”

“Found it on the road, on the seat of one of the cars,” the guy replied in embarrassment as if confessing to something terribly obscene, or terribly criminal.

Hyde chewed his lip, then sat down next to him and pointed a finger at one of the oily dots.

“You don't have a pen?” his head shook in denying. “Yeah, just as I thought. We're here. Newcastle upon Tyne. If you want to get to London – you're going here,” he traced a long, serpentine road. “This is A1. A road and a motorway. You'll go straight on it and you'll be there. Got the picture, dumbhead?”

Henry took the map from him, visibly imagining the direction in his head, then nodded uncertainly.

“Well, that's all, tip-top.” Hyde jumped up, dancing on the spot cheerfully. “You can go!"

“W-wait, I...” the brunet jumped as well, crumpling a scrap of paper in his hands. “Can I stay with you for one more night?”

For some reason, it sounded like a phrase from some old, vulgar romcom; and Hyde would certainly laugh if he wouldn't have wanted to crucify this kid right now. He stared at him with a threatening to all living aggression. That's only Henry, clearly and completely, lacked a sense of self-preservation. He shrugged innocently.

“I just wanted to get some supplies before I'll leave-”

“I've already searched everything. There haven't left a goddamn thing,” Hyde snarled. “I'm not going to share anything with you, and I'm not going to hosting you again!”

“But-”

“What the hell is unclear in the phrase 'I don't want to have anything fucking common with you, please get out of here'?!”

“But I won't take anything from you,” Henry hissed, as he surprised both his opponent and himself. “I'll seek through the shops myself and I, I, oh okay, I can find a place to sleep myself, if you're so disgusted with me, just _don't shoot me while I'm here_ , okay?”

Wow. It was strong. Without repetition, to perform like that. Hyde shook his head and snorted. Fine, not that he was impressed, but if this man wanted so – he can do whatever the hell he wants.

“Whatever. Just stay away from me.”

 

With each millimeter of the sun setting over the horizon, his senses became acuter and acuter. Maybe that's why, when the full night had fallen on the city, the cry, heard far away, slashed on the ears so painfully. Hyde had climbed to the bell tower of the cathedral – the Shadows in the main nave raged and broke their claws of the marble monuments. A minute ago he was immersed in the abyss of his tattered reflections; now cautiously turned to the sound. And gritted his teeth. A hundred, no, even one hundred and fifty percent it was the dumbhead. He either didn't find a shelter or stuck somewhere in a very inappropriate place. In any case, he was already dead. His body, tearing by the poisoned teeth of Shadows, his body was probably rotting somewhere in the ditch and oh God, why the hell Edward was going to check on him; he had already given his last breath, don't be so sissy, you yourself knew what would the dumbhead come across when he doesn't even have a simple fork with him. And that little flashlight is good only to ward off these fucking shadow mouse, God where are you going in the middle of the night, turn back.

Having furiously shaken his head, Edward overcame the last meters of the path to the source of the scream with a few jumps – and probably shouldn't have done this at all.

One of the creatures immediately attacked him – was that what, a dog? - pinning him with heavy paws to the ground, clenching its chops in front of his nose. Its black saliva dripped on his neck, white eyes stared with an obtuse expression. It was fucking heavy. Edward hit it with a crossbow, getting the tip of the prepared bolt into its neck; it didn't inflict any special damage, only made the Shadow angry – and it dug its claws into his hips, tearing off the jeans. Hyde howled, lost in mixed feelings for a second ( _godfuckhesscratchedhesgoingtodienowornotwhatshouldhedowhatshouldhedo_ ), then cracked the cur on the head with all his strength and it shook, pouring on him a new portion of black poison. He strained his knees and flung it away, jumped onto his own feet and stared at them. It wasn't so bad, yes, it wasn't so bad, scratches rarely ended with poisoning, it was usually a saliva, yes, it's okay, he will cope. Only now he looked around – it was an abandoned supermarket with broken windows, around which were circling poisoned dogs. They were jumping and gurgling, scraping the walls and desperately trying to climb up. Hyde followed their path with a glance, and – irritatedly, almost boyishly – stamped his foot. How the hell he's going to get this dumbhead out from there, the Shadows all over the city were flocking to him. Yes, of course it was Henry.

He was shining with his weak flashlight in all directions, horror warped his little face; his eyes were desperately searching for the path to salvation. He was pressing his right hand to his chest, and a black-and-red stain was spreading over his plaid shirt. Oh no. Oh fuck god no, he can't die on the first day of their acquaintance.

When Henry saw Edward something in his face changed, and he shouted:

“Behind you!”

But it was too late. The previously thrown away Shadow jumped on Hyde from the back, dropping him on the asphalt. He painfully hit his forehead, hissed and found the strength to turn around sharply, shooting an arrow at its head. It went through the mouth, getting stuck in the top of the head. The creature croaked, a fountain of black blood splashed from its head, pouring the fur on its back – but it wasn't dead. Edward had no damn clue of what to do, panic boiled in his veins, adrenaline injected into the brain. He started to crawl away while the black dog was shaking its head, trying to get rid of the foreign object in the brain. But where away? – further was only a supermarket and a couple of other Shadows already had time to smell him, and they grinned. A bleary voice was heard from above, Edward jumped to his feet and aimed, even if it won't help at least he'll die fighting. The first mutt he pushed away with his foot, the second and third attacked him at the same time and he shot through their chests, piercing their hearts. 'Course it didn't stop them. He had time to shove one with a crossbow, but retreating back, stumbled and fell, hitting the coccyx. He was instantly attacked, their claws pressed him to the ground, their fangs reached to his neck. He clung to the dog's hair, trying to scare it away, but it was too close, somewhere on the edge of his eye he saw a faint light and

 

p̓̀̑ͧ̈ͩ̽aiͨ̏̓ͥ͑̎n ̾s̆ͯ̋̆̓̇wͫ̑̏̈aͥl̾̐ͯ͋lͨ̾͑ͯ̃̈̇o͊́ͬ̉̓wͭͫ͊ed̑̈̂͌ ͦ͋̚al͋̈͑͂̐́l͛ͧ͑́ͦ̓ ̈͛̇ù̚ṗ.̾̓̓̌ ͦͨ̈I̓̋͆ͮ̈̂t̐͑̉ ̒ͤ̅sͧ͑̑ö̓̚a͗ͧͤͯͥk̒ͣ̿̈e̽dͫ̋͋̈́̀͂ ͛̚iͫ̔̋ͮ͆̓n̑t̆̎̎ͬͬo ͭe̒̉͂ͬ͛̆ͨv̇ͩ̽͗̿͒ë̿r̍͒̑ͫy͗ ̇̉̽͂͑̾c̾̊ͫ̚ēlͤl͊ͭͯ̈̀̾̑ ͊õ͂ͮ̀̄f̑ͫ̇̈́ͯ̔ ͦ͊̇̉͊͗ḣ͒iͤͣ͆͂͑̊̌s͋̾̍ ̎̇̔͋͗̌bͬͬͣod̐ͥy,̌ ͊́͋iͤ̓͗lͭ̎͒l̀̃͑ͨ̉uͬm̏͛ͣ̀̂in̽aͩ̋t̽̽ͦ̅̋in̐̐̽g̾͊ͩ̆̓ͫ̚ ̊ẗͦ̋̂́ͧh̿ͯ͒̑̅e̿ ͧ͐̓͒̃̚bͥͨ̀͒͂o͐ͥn̐͂̔̉ͫȅ͂̇ͦ̌̚s̉̌ ̇́̒̂ȃnd̃̔ͩͮ ruͮ̽͂̉ͧͯs̍ͧ̉ḧ́͒͋̒͑iͭ̐nͨͨ̀gͪ̍ ̔͊t̃̑̃h̉̔̔̀̍ͤr̃ͣ͑ͪͧo̎ͩ̄ǔ̒gͨͭ̾ͪh͌ͥ ͊̋ͪ̚ẗ́͛̈́ͨ̓h̉̽ë̆͐̆͒ ̽̑̅ͬ̀a̎̈́ͪr͐͊ͫt̎͆ͫe͐̎ri̓ͥ͋̑ͤ͛̏e̎͋sͮ̅̎ ̏̂̒ͦľ̈ͨi̾̏ͮ͊̈́̿k̃͒ͮeͭ͆ a̓̃̎ ̊ͮͨͩmͭ̔̐̈̈oͥl̓ͣ͛͛t̽ȅ͒͛n̿ͫ̔̑̓ ̇̑ͦ͌ͩ̄iͯͥ͒̐̅͂̚r̓ͯ̒ͫͨoͣn͛͐ͬͦͩ͌.̿ͮ͋ͩ͛

H̘͚̻e̮̗̱̩̳͔̖ ̱̫̺s͙̺͎̪c͎̲r̲e̲͇̙͎͎̖ͅamed̩̮̖͖̪͕͍ ͎̰i̫̩͚n̖̗͍ a͈̪̗͈̥̬n̦ ̩͙͖͚̻͖̪ḭ̬n̳̰̼̳̝̩̤h̲̳͓̭̻̦u͙͓̠̟̬͍ͅm̼an ͓͈͕͍͓vo͔̱̱̞̹̯ͅi̩̤͎̣̘ͅc̬̟̹e̮͉̞̰̗̱̭, ͉̪̖̬b̼̤̠̻̞u̗̰̼̙̠͔̖t̫̗͕͚̦͙̫ ̮d̼̳͉͇i̺͎̤͖dn͍̜'̳͓̠̱̼̳t̜͎̮ h̬̬e̞̤̭̘a̜r̙̪̙̞̥̟̣ ̝̥a̖n̦̩͙̥̝͙y̠͔̼͙t̞͔͇͙͓ͅhi̭̖͕̻̣n̳̦͉g̮̼͈̻̠ ̲̲͉̫̹̤a̭̹̩̗̣̬ͅn̦̻͔͎̠d̰ ͇̗̪͇c͔ur͇ḻ̠͔̰e͓d ̻̦̠̼u̱p͓̰̼ i̙̠n̹̻͇̼t̫͕o̦͇̯̳ ̪̲͎̦a̩̯ ̲͕̗͎͖b̜a̞̬͎̥͓ͅl͕̱l̺,̘̞̮̪̦ͅ ̠͈̝̱͙̜̲t̘̳̝r̼̘͖̺̬y̹i͖̱ͅn̩̬͇͇̥͖̤g͉̥̱̼̮̹ ̝t̯̹o ̺̮d͈̗̜e͎̦f̠̭͔e̘̼n̰̞ͅd̬̗͖̭ ̞̩͙hi̫m̺̜͉̟͉̬s͈̭͚e̹͔͔l̻͍̮͉̘͔̙f̫͙̰̥,̝͎ ̟̩̟̟t̲̯͇̜̺̟̮r͉̖͈y̼i̩̫̞͙̞n̟̩͈͕̘g͔͈ ̦͇̫̳̼̯̜t͕͍ͅo̝̺̦͖͔ ̘͚͖̥̪͕̗s̮̦t̤̪̯̦͇o̻̲̙̗̱̱p͎ ̪͚̫̺̪͔͉t̥̣͔͓̻̞̻h̼͈̻̯i͍s͔̲̣̣̫ͅ ̘̬̱̣̟͔͉t͉̳͖o̱̤͖͍̺͔r̼̳̙t̙͈̬̳̦͖u̟͇̲̳̤̙̝r̹̦̭̝̝e̜̯̭ s̬̜o͎͚̳̫̝̙m̼e̦͚̘̯̬h̘̠̪͔̳͉͇o̖̖w̮̬̖̯̺.͓̳̪͍̺̭̝

  
   
Ṭ̳oͪ̌ͧ̑́̓́o̭͚͆̉ ̖̻͙̣̦͍͔͛ͪm̦͒̓̋́̈́u͈ͯͦ̊ͫͬ̚c̻̪ͯh̖̳̿̍ ̖̟̲̳͓̪͂͊ͭ͑ͧ̒ͅlͥͩ͆̐͑͑ỉ̥̅̈́ͪ̇͛̒g̩̪̰͙͍̣ͨh̻̯͋ͯẗ̔̍

                                 t͙̫ͪ̑ͩo̳̤̦͇͕ͫͪͭ̚ö̰̣̦̲͚́ͧ̄ͨͤ ̮̙̤͖͖̪̃ͩ͐̿̿ͅm͋ͥ̔̋ͧͪ͋u̱̞ͩc͈ͣ̐ͪͥ̚h̫ͦͨ̆ͭ ̘̠̾l͓͖͔̲i̜̥͕̦͙ͫ̃̈g͓̦͆̓h̫̬̣͇̲͆̈̾t̥̮͕̣͕̄̔̊

                                                                                t̥̙͓̗̯ͨ́o̶̱̩ͮ̆͂͂̍o̺̦̼̼͓̺͕͎ͩͫ̀͊̌ͪͭ͠ ̧̠̲̹̀̓̒ͫ̋ͩͧͭm̦̭͚̟̲̫̌̈́̍̕͞u̳͉̾ͭc̴̤͇͉̱̙̯̮̮̫͗̒͑͜ẖ̴͈̩ͥ̑͐ͯ̀̂̍͜ ͈̭̜̖̮̂ͤ̽ͨͣ͒̉̚͢l̳̖͙̭̮̟̦͆̐̐̍̑͑ͤḯ̓ͤ͊̂̋ͣ̔̄҉͍g̲͖̙͙̥͔̓̔ͪ̂̑̎͒̊̈́͜h̋̀͊̆̈́̃̎͌҉̹͎̮̞͕͚ͅṫ̢̬̝̯̪̜̗͋̏̎ͪ̚.̱̦̟̹̂͋̿̕

 

 

I͂ͯ́͝҉̷͓͕̪͈̰̤̣̦͕ṯ͇̲̤̟̟̑ͯͪ̑̉͊̀ͥ͆̍ͪ̌̌ͨͬ́̚͜͝ͅ ̨̫̘̻̩̞͈̫̬͍̬̭̣̗̊̅̑̈́ͧͫͤ̓ͫ̏̒͂ͧ͒̂ͯ͂̚̕̕͞h̭̣͚̗̰͙ͫ͌̃́̍̀ͦͫͦ̒ͥ͝ủ̪̙̼͈̬͚̗̳͚̫͎̖̙̹̥͍̣̖͋ͤ̔̀̋ͭ̌́̕͟͡͞r̊̌ͫ̌͗̓̽̿̐̓͊͊̓̿̏ͥ҉̯͔̰̠̖̰͍͟ț͙̲̎̉̇͐̂̾̑̿͘͠

 

“Stop it, you're hurting him!”

Everything flickered out. Edward made a convulsive breath, rising slightly on his hands – he was shaking as if in fever, but before that he had fought with some Shadow, he, he, what happened? He stood back on his trembling legs, the crossbow was here, he had dropped it. Ahead were someone's blurred figures – one of them jerked and was about to rush to him, but the second one blocked its way. When the vision returned completely, Edward recognized Henry in one of the figures. The man and the woman were unfamiliar to him. But by the lanterns in their hands, he took a guess who they were and what just happened.

Hyde gave a crooked grin.

“So you're hanging out with the Lightkeepers now, dumbhead? T's clever.”

Henry twitched as if he had hit him. Hyde spat – howling with pain, he'd bit his tongue and salted blood accumulated in his mouth. The night was quiet again. Behind the backs of the two strangers stood a minivan, flashing its headlights – this light was only pinching the eyes, but Hyde preferred to keep away from it nevertheless.

“Henry, stay back from him,” the girl said, frowning at the blond man. “He's poisoned.”

“But I'm now, too!” exclaimed Henry, still folding his hand near his chest. “Can't you see?!”

“I can see that your veins aren't even black at this place. And I'd be damned if I knew what this means – but you're _not_ poisoned.”

Hyde suddenly burst out laughing, clutching to his stomach and bending in half. He was tired. The realization of everything fell upon him worse than the Shadow itself. It was incredible. Delightful. From the whole handful of people who'd survived in this accursed world, it was he, the former laboratory rat, who was destined to meet the 'new hope of all mankind'. Life is truly an amazing thing. _He was going to vomit._

“B-but I...” Henry gave a voice timidly when Hyde stopped to breath a little. “I saw the same number on your wrist. While you were sleeping. I-if this is some kind of immunity to poison, then why are you poisoned, I don't understand!”

“Not everyone is as lucky as you, pretty boy,” Hyde snorted, feeling the anger started to boil in his veins. The crossbow in his hands suddenly seemed heavier. He also wanted to use it. “You don't remember anything? So let me remind you! On the first day of the infection, the government opened a kind of underground bunker and took one thousand people in there. Very few knew about this piece of crap. Apparently, I was fucking lucky,” his hand twitched on the aim, and he bit his lip but continued: “to get there. They promised us almost a resort, y'know. But a week later everyone was boxed into single cells and they began to test heaps of vaccines, looking for an antidote. People were tortured there. And I, I'm one of the unsuccessful experiments, dumbhead. The poison's gobbling me from the inside already for a whole, bitchy year.”

The woman behind Henry's back exchanged glances with the guy. Hyde tensed – if the two of them turn on their lanterns again, he will not survive. So he'll be shooting first.

“I managed to escape. Then I heard this crap exploded. You're probably one of the survivors, I don't have a fucking clue. And it looks like you,” Hyde licked the blood from his lower lip. “You are the antidote.”

“I am _what_?!”  
  
Henry backed away, bumping into the car's hood. Even in the dark, one could see how broadened were his eyes. And he began to tremble. Hell, Hyde almost felt sorry for this kid.

“Antidote, dumbhead. I've heard about you, you've been carried by these psychos like a treasure, almost in their hands. You're the only one,” he said mockingly. “The only one who survived one of the vaccines with a positive result. Now your blood, perhaps, needs to be injected to dropped dead people, well, or Shadows – sorry, I'm not aware of this stuff.”

The girl stepped forward as if trying to shelter shocked Henry from Hyde's venomous words. He grinned, shaking his head, prudently taking one step back.

“Enough. We take him and leave.”

“Oh, thanks satan!” hissed. “Get out of this city, of my city, get the fuck out and hurry!”

“W-wait, you can… You can come with us. It'll be easier for us, for you, to survive together.” Henry, this little, brave boy jumped ahead, and it was even selfless and cute; and Edward wouldn't have found the strength to snap back at him.

But Hyde snapped.

“Just leave me alone, freak.”

He turned around, leaping from the fatigue heart in his chest, boots on the stones crushed in the dust. It was now the middle of the night, he needed to find a place to outlive it. And no more damned church. Tomorrow he leaves this city.

Edward somehow had an annoying feeling that he and this guy Henry perhaps might meet again. But only perhaps.


	4. iv. kristy, are you doing okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have our last main character.

The rustle woke Rachel up. She instantly opened her eyes, grabbing the handle of the kitchen knife under the pillow. Then listened harder – no, the voices coming from outside weren't screams of horror, rather nervous whispering. She stretched, relaxing, and rubbed her eyes. Yesterday Rachel had to panically run to their storehouse and take out tons of bandages and anesthetics. By the evening she hadn't felt her feet, so when she got permission to go to her tent – fell lost in the world of dreams without a moment. Now from this world were left only blurry scraps, but she was still feeling an unpleasant cold from the absence of someone dear.

Rachel threw the disheveled strands of hair behind her ears, laced up her boots, and lifted the edge of the tent. The sun was raising. They survived another night.

The small camp was set up near the same small house in the forest – and now it was seized by a mess. People were scurrying back and forth, buzzing and colliding. There weren't many of them, but now they seemed like a real crowd to Rachel. She shivered. Turned to the side of the house and ran up the stairs, opening the front door and hiding inside. Compared with what was happening outside – there was a dead silence. The girl glanced at the cloth chandelier covered with dead flies, and approached one of the rooms, indecisively hesitating at the entrance. She had enough of yesterday's horrors – to be honest, she would like to forget it forever. But you can't escape from reality. She pulled the door to herself. It creaked.

“Oh, Rachel, honey. Come on in.”

Missus Cantilupe threw a glance at her through the glasses on the bridge of her nose; then turned back to her husband. Rachel clung to her own wrist, nervously massaging it with fingers. Mister Cantilupe was laying here – on white sheets, wrapped in a snow-white blanket, and in grayish white clothes. He would've resembled an angel or a saint, had not he had a black stain constantly creeping on his chest, percolating through the fabric. Black viscous slurry was running down one of the legs of the bed, gathering in a tiny puddle on the floor. Mrs. Cantilupe, probably, had long ceased to pay attention to this. She was sitting on a chair, at the bed of the deceased, her head on the palms under her chin, her glance tired and faded. She seemed old. Rachel sniffed.

“I'm… very sorry, Mrs. Cantilupe. He was a very… good person.”  
  
The woman nodded, not looking up.

“He picked me, and I will always be grateful for that. He was a good leader… respected… I… I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say.” Rachel swallowed a lump in her throat and stared at her feet in confusion.

Emilia Cantilupe cleared her throat and got up from her seat, approaching the girl, taking her hands in hers and gently hugging her. Rachel froze – she didn't know what to do, she hadn't been doing it for so long, she was always so afraid of losing those whom were given her hugs. It was strange. But it was pleasant. It was some kind of solidarity or maybe a sign that she had become a part of the family for a long time already. Not much time had passed, though.

She hugged the woman in return.

“It's all right, dear. Thank you for such kind words,” Cantilupe muttered, tearing away from her. “I hope you had your sleep, at least a little. You helped me a lot yesterday.”

Rachel blushed, swaying shyly from heels to toes.

“A little. It was hard to fall asleep.” Cantilupe nodded understandingly. “Actually I, I wanted to ask now, what's happening there? Outside. Everyone seems to be on their nerves.” She shrugged indefinitely.

The older woman went back to the bed, correcting the soiled blanket as if it could still warm the deceased. Rachel swallowed. Of course, she was a little out of sort now, b-but… She was going to be alright, wasn't she?

“Pennebrygg reported that they had found some child near the city limit. They brought them here, only they refuse to talk, drink and eat, and no one knows how to approach them. Sorry, I don't know much now.”

“Oh, I, I understood,” the girl mumbled, taking a step back.

Cantilupe walked to the window, reopening the sight of a black puddle of poison spilling across the floor. The air in the room suddenly showed itself to thick for Rachel, filled with invisible fumes, penetrating into her lungs with every sigh. It's all stupid – she was telling herself. It shouldn't cause any harm. But oh, she wanted to get out of here.

“M-maybe I'll try to do something, I mean, with this child, I'll try to talk to them or something.” She took another step back, ashamed of her cowardice at the same time. Of course, Mrs. Cantilupe had a grief now, she was in a difficult situation, she was mourning. That didn't mean she suddenly went mad and… Lord.

“Yes, of course, my dear. Go on.” The woman sharply turned on her heels, coming up to the table with a large lamp. “I kept this infection inside Louis as much as I could, but of course it's time to burn him. I think we'll have his funeral at noon? Will you come?”

Never.

“Sure,” Rachel smiled, slipping out of the door without a second.

 

A tense peace – that's how you could briefly describe the atmosphere that was prevailing in the camp. The survivors broke into small groups – passing by one of the open tents, Rachel heard the echoes of their conversation:

“… but if this black shit was created in order to poison _us_ , why did it affect the fucking _weather_?..”

“… Yeah, I don't remember that some blackness was covering us for three months before...”

“… maybe it's because of poisoned plants that produce poisoned air?..”

“… do you even realize how strange this sounds?..”

The girl quickened her pace. That was an eternal topic for discussions. By popularity with which now only could compare the death of the leader of their group. It was discussed in a whisper – mostly out of respect for Mrs. Cantilupe. But it _was_ discussed, and Rachel didn't want to take even the slightest part in such conversations. She was frightened enough by the thought she would lose her home again, again she'd be completely alone in the face of dangers. It was worthwhile to push it to the furthest corner of the brain.

Pennebrygg greeted her with a friendly raised gun and a smile. He was standing at the entrance to his tent, Luckett was sitting next, sipping curdled with steam tea from a cracked on one side cup.

“Did ya want something, Rach?”

“Mrs. Cantilupe said you found someone. I thought maybe I could talk to them.”

Demoman – and now also a good hunter – harrumphed and shook his head in disbelief.

“Unlikely you'll talk them up, they're really quiet. Don't seem to be mute, but… In sum, I have no idea what happened to this child.”

“I'll try,” Rachel said decisively. “Where are they?”

She was nodded at the tent behind the men.

“Got them in mine for now, let them sit for a while,” said Pennebrygg. “And rest. Hey, wait,” before the girl had time to rush there without any words, the mechanic grabbed her by the elbow and lightly pulled back. “Tell me, how's Missis Cantilupe? What she's planning to do?”

Rachel bit her lip and exhaled through the nose. She had only helped to alleviate the dying's suffering (burning his insides with light, but…), why she was immediately recorded as the favorite of the Cantilupes? She was tired. She wasn't even a medic, and from the second medic in the camp (not counting Mrs. C herself) was no help – rather, for some reason, he hadn't been allowed to be presented at all, and was said to check the remaining for poisoning.

“She's gonna burn Mr. Cantilupe at noon, that's all I know,” Rachel replied sluggishly, slipping out of the mechanic's capture and whisking in cozy penumbra tent.

Yes, she noticed this child – though not immediately. They curled into a ball at the far wall, their dirty and worn clothes were hanging on them like a trash bag, their hair was blowzy. Rachel came closer cautiously as if she was about to tame a wild animal. She knew too well what's happening to people who have forgotten themselves alone with their own fears. Knew for her own.

“Hey, hi! Don't be afraid, I won't touch you.”  
  
They didn't react. She took another step, then sat down in the center of the tent, folding her legs and laying her palms on them. Looked around. Of the things with them was only a small cloth bag. It was probably already searched, but neither Luckett nor Pennebrygg told her anything, so everything that was there – memories. Rachel knew, people often carry them after themselves. Her own were a bitter, indelible curse.

“I'm Rachel. You don't have to tell me your name if you don't wanna. Or you can – I won't tell anyone, it will be our secret.” She grinned, rocking gently. “I know, now everything seems not very good. Uh, what am I saying – it's all shitty, not even 'not very good'.” They blinked, glancing sideways at the girl. “Yesterday I had to carry back and forth so many bandages, half of them were in this black slime, and I...”

Her voice broke, but Rachel immediately took herself in hands and smiled again.

“I think I'm just tired. I guess I understand how you're feeling now – I don't have anyone at here either… No, don't you think – all these people, I love them! I've been with them only for three months, but they accepted me as a part of their… small Society. They're all so different, but so united. Just sometimes I… miss my family. At least someone. Anyone.”

The child opposite sniffed their nose, the tension in their shoulders was noticeably diminished. Rachel ran her hand through her hair, then slowly stood up.

“Well, sorry I'm hitting you with all my problems. You're safe here, okay? Just wanted to say. No one will touch you. If you'll need something – turn to anyone. Or come to me, I live in a tent opposite.”

She moved toward the exit-

“I don't know.”

\- but stopped halfway. Turned around, glanced at the gradually unfolding ball, at the hounded gaze from under the brown curls. Their voice was very hoarse and thin as if they hadn't spoken for a long time. Or screamed for a long time.

“What you don't know?”

“My n-name...” They twitched weakly. “I-it's just… I don't know...”

Rachel came closer – still very slowly and accurately; smiled softly, sitting down beside.

“I'll call you whatever you want.”

They sniffed again, looked at their palms as if wanting to find an answer there.

“Then m-maybe… Jasper?”

“So Jasper you are!” the girl clapped her hands, with which frightened her companion and immediately-embarrassedly covered her mouth with a hand. “Aw, sorry.”

But the boy shook his head, a faint smile ran over his lips.

“Nothing. I just… I don't know… it's all very unusual, and now we even have” he giggled nervously, and Rachel echoed his chuckle “the apocalypse.”

He stretched his legs in ragged pants and wrinkled slightly. The girl noticed a small wound below his right knee, hastily bandaged with soaked bloody pieces of tissue. She frowned.

“Oh, it's just a scratch!” Jasper rattled, catching her gaze. “I'm not poisoned, I just cut myself on a stupid branch. It isn't even blooding now, and doesn't hurt.”

“I'm not saying you're poisoned. But you need to wash.” She stood up, giving him her hand, which the boy, after a few seconds of contemplation, accepted. “Let's go, I'll lead you. We have a shower in the house. You wash all this, and then we'll see. Although I sincerely don't want you to go to our med center,” she rounded her eyes conspiratorially, gently dragging the boy behind. “There's this Lanyon, he's suuuuuch an upstart, he'll read you a whole lecture-”

 

Rachel narrowed her eyes nervously, watching the sun creeping across the sky. Noontime was inexorably approaching, and from the reigning in the camp atmosphere, she was feeling more and more uncomfortable. She had time to fully engage in the newcomer – sent him to a shower, changed his clothes, gave food and drink. He followed her on heels, accompanied by a wary-surprised glances from the rest of the group. Rachel was trying not to intersect with anyone but casually mentioned everyone as well.

“… Mr. Bird is trying to preserve unpoisoned plants and trees. He had his own greenhouse on wheels, I like to go there, sometime will take you if you want. It's cozy there. Mr. Tweedy assists with all mechanics and electricity when it can be restored, he's also a hunter. His husband – Doddle – is a cook, always was. Yes, we still have a lot of people...”

Jasper listened to everything with undisguised enthusiasm, but in the depths of his eyes were setting ashes of sadness and pain from everything experienced. Rachel wanted to hug him, but was afraid to frighten, so time by time only touched his hands with fingertips. At some moment of their brief half-excursion around the camp, an idea came to her head, so she immediately and loudly voiced it:

“You need to distract yourself!”

The boy shuddered, stumbled, and nearly flew down but was picked up and raised with strong hands of Rachel.

“W-what?” he blurted out embarrassedly as the girl shook off the dust from his new jacket.

“Take your mind off. You're walking like a big black cloud – and I understand why, especially with all this situation. You need to switch your thoughts a little. And I know how. Are you with me?” She smiled, and Jasper made an awkward grimace in response.

In fact, it wasn't entirely fair. And not quite right. Rachel just wanted to slip out of here, so she took the first chance that came to her mind. Like a brisk disheveled lightning, she rushed to her tent, collected a small handbag and went out to Jasper, who was waiting for her. She would've told him to grab his backpack himself, but did realize that he was still too fearful and timid; so quietly walked him to the Pennebrygg's tent and blinked emphatically in its direction. The boy understood immediately. A minute later she was already leading him in a roundabout way to the exit from the camp, where Mosley was on guard. After seeing the children, he stepped forward. Jasper backed away – with a mask covering his face, massive goggles protecting his eyes and a long, twisted with nails bat: the man looked menacing. His voice, however, was warm and infinitely friendly, though deaf because of the dense fabric.

“Running away, Rach?”

“Cover us, James?” the girl asked innocently.

“You'll miss the wake.”

“Well, I already expressed my condolences to Mrs. C.” Rachel bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. How quickly she forgot that had promised to be present. “You know, I'm not very good with words… A-and our newcomer needs to relax a bit, why is he being held here like a prisoner.” She nodded at Jasper. He jerked under the gaze through the thick glasses.

Mosley looked at them for a while, then surrendered.

“As soon as the sun begins to go in-”

“Yea, yea, we're coming back,” Rachel actively agreed, grabbing Jasper's wrist and dragging along with her. “Of course, I took the flashlight!” she shouted at the still unasked question. “We'll be soon!”

 

She put her foot on the piece of the building protruding from the ground, sniffing. The dust was flying in the air, faint sun breaking through the clouds covering the sky like pigeon wings. The summer of this year was unexpectedly pleasant, and the autumn didn't hurry with the colds, piercing to the last bone. Too bad Helsby – in his raspy voice – was predicting that the Eternal Darkness would be much tougher because of this. For Rachel it'll be the first, so far she'd been only listening to stories from people who had experienced it already twice. Twice – two terrible years. It was the third year of the Poisoning.

Jasper walked over to her, taking a cautious stance, and the girl lifted the corners of her lips, holding back a giggle that was trying to burst out. They reached the town in a matter of ten minutes – the camp of the Society wasn't far from the main road along which they've been traveling. It was safer, of course, to stop in cities, not on the roadside – but there wasn't any undestroyed nearby. So and this small city also consisted of broken pavement, nature, entwining the buildings with her tentacles, and proud fragments of a once majestic cathedral. The city was called Ripon. Unlikely it had any meaning now.

“And- and what are you planning to do?” Jasper's voice was quiet as if he was afraid to frighten off the moss resting on the rocks.

Rachel shrugged and jumped into a shallow pit right at her feet. Yawned wide, throwing her hands behind the back, and darted to the other side of the ditch, laughing:

“Last one's a poisoned turtle!”  
  
Jasper twitched, climbed down after her, slipped, got up, and followed with a wailing. The girl turned behind the alley, then ran across several streets, and eventually ended up in a small square. Well, or on what had left of it. She slowed down, with some kind of perverted admiration evaluating the established dystopic picture. Pleasant, painted in white houses became bricks. Lanterns were broken – their glass and lightbulbs turned to dust on the crumpled earth. From the once large administrative building remained only a pile of garbage. It was a wasteland. The remnants of the power of those who built it all. Now only the crooked, tore inside-out nature was reigning on here – here are the black runners of willow ivy curl over the debris lying on the ground; here's revoltingly soft moss devours the rusty metal of the door hinges: here are someone's eyes peeping out of the darkness of some little shop with broken windows, someone's smile scraping in the dark-

“Gotcha!”

Jasper bumped on her from behind, and Rachel squeaked. Not staying on her feet, she rolled down, dragging the new boy behind. Their sudden fall was stopped by a solid wall, and both tore apart, puffing.

“Never do that again,” Rachel blurted, rubbing the fresher bump on the forehead.

“Sorry, I won't,” Jasper replied in the same hoarse voice.

She stood up, straightening her clothes and giving her hand to a friend. He rose, grasping his back, groaning.

“Y'know, I don't think poisoned turtles exist at all.”

Rachel shrugged.

“Jokes on you. The fact that you don't see them doesn't mean they don't exist!”

She waved to him in the direction of some lane, and from Jasper's exhale understood that it wasn't difficult for him to put the purpose of their journey in mind. There wasn't any. Just aimless wobbling around the long-poisoned ruins. Yet he sensibly decided not to complain.

“I just don't think that such animals like turtles would survive. Well, you know… they're kinda,” he hesitated, picking up the word “tiny.”

“But angry!” Rachel exclaimed, throwing her thumb up in the air. “Have you ever had a turtle? I haven't too. But my neighbor by the school desk – I don't remember how his name was – he had a turtle, and uh! - what the creature she was.” The girl rounded her eyes and prophesied: “Everyone was afraid of her! I imagine what would it be if she'd drink the poison! No, actually, I don't even want to imagine...”

Jasper giggled. Rachel suddenly turned sideways and found herself at the window of a small restaurant – a black mold devoured its innards, above the nameplate ironically hung a decorative lantern. Also here, right by the wall, was someone's broken smartphone, which she picked up and twisted in her hands. Useless thing.

“Listen, there must be a graveyard of old phone booths somewhere. I'd like to go there,” she muttered, throwing the phone away.

Jasper followed it with a gaze.

“Nah, it's somewhere far away, between cities. Don't want to risk it,” the girl answered herself, moving further along the sidewalk.

They went through a few more streets, and then Rachel climbed the stone mound to the floor of some small house and gave him her hand. If not taking as a defect a lack of one of the walls – a room in which they turned out to be was quite cozy. From the furniture there was only a huge, antique clock. The copper arrows froze at 20:20, the door hiding the pendulums behind was lying on the floor like a scratched piece of fallen off flesh. Rachel gave it a blank look, but Jasper suddenly whined:

“Let's get out of here.”

She shuddered – his hand clasped her left wrist tightly. She allowed him to lead – though, more likely to drag – both of them to another room, and then to cross the wobbly bridge out of garbage to the next building.

“Why?” Rachel asked cautiously when her partner finally leaned against the wall.

“it's just… I don't like these stiff clocks. They're like… watching… I don't know, it's stupid.” He slid down to the floor, grasping his hair and massaging his temples, grimacing. Rachel pulled the bag off her shoulder and walked over to him, sitting beside. Folded her hands on her knees and threw her head back, involuntarily bumping against the wall.

“I too see a lot of bad. Things that aren't here and shouldn't be. I don't know who I am anymore and… Yeah, a lot of shit is happening.” Rachel suddenly sobbed, quite childishly, but immediately wiped the tear with a sleeve.

Jasper looked at her. Jasper smiled, took her hand in his. Right now they weren't survivors, weren't fighters for their existence – just two lost children, and it was beautiful in its own way.

 

“So you're going tooo...”

“London. Aha. I've already been there, to be honest. Well, not that I've _been_ – I was born there. And lived. But even after the beginning of all this – too.”

The house in which they found their shelter was, perhaps, the most well-saved of all in the town. The sun was moving smoothly but surely to the horizon line – soon they should go on the way back. Rachel didn't want to let anyone down, didn't want to be worried about. But now she stretched out her legs, curled up on a piece of cloth next to Jasper, and looked at the sky through a non-existent roof.

“Oh, cool. I'm from Manchester. Well, I was born there, and then my family and I traveled a lot.”

“So Manchester United?” Jasper shoved her with his elbow, and Rachel indecently giggled.

“I'm a total zero at sport.”

“How unfortunate. And my brother and I liked to watch football matches. I always waited for him from his, hm...” she grimaced. “Work.”

Jasper turned over on his side, looking at her. Before surrendering and turning around to him, too, the girl snorted and shook her head. Now they lay with their heads bowed, staring into each other's eyes. He had brown – Rachel didn't know why but for her it was important. Who else besides her would pay attention to such trifles, in this rotten world?

“What happened to your family?” the boy asked softly.

“And your?”

A heavy sigh was her answer, and for a second she regretted asking. But only for a second. Because wasn't going to open her heart to someone who wouldn't open their own.

“My mother, me and grandma were in Scotland when it all began. This infection there – it somehow spread too fast.” He swallowed but continued. “I was fourteen then. I dunno, probably from a shock but I don't remember much. We fled from Scotland, then traveled around England, tried to settle somewhere. We found a farm and spent a year there. I liked it. We began to search unpoisoned plants and animals.”

Jasper looked away – the worst part of the story was preparing in his mind. The invigorating touch to his fingers helped him find the words:

“And then… Everything went to hell, mom got infected, and my granny and I left her there and drove away… We were aimlessly driving for a few weeks until the gasoline ended. Then went on the foot. We were attacked and she was torn, and I ran away. The next day, your people found me. The end.” He shrugged his shoulders – as if it's nothing, just another one story of someone who had lost something, someone.

For Rachel it meant the whole world but she knew that no words of comfort would ever bring real peace – that's why she just tucked up her sleeve and stretched her wrist forward. Tears in the eyes of this lost boy dried up without having time to spill, he stared with puzzle and amazement at the three clearly marked numerals.

“908? Wh-what is this?”

“My number.” Said – and didn't recognize her voice. Too dry, cracked. Extremely tired. Full of pain. “I was an experimental mouse under London, in governments laboratories. They were looking for an antidote.”

Jasper's eyes widened, he opened his mouth to say something but couldn't utter a sound. Rachel's nerves fluttered through her veins as she brushed aside painful memories and continued:

“Long to tell how I got there. I spent more than two years there, yeah. They almost didn't touch me – kept the children to the last – but my brother… My brother, they...” She hesitated, not knowing how to continue, biting her lip. Though the continuing wasn't required from her  – Jasper took her hands in his, round and hot, and Rachel crawled closer to him.

“All in all,” breathed out. “I heard several times that someone ran from there, but didn't know who and how. Then one day we all woke up from the siren, us, children, began to evacuate. My brother and I were allowed to spend time together but that day they forced us to sleep in different parts of this underground prison, and I, I… There was a crush, chaos, I tried to escape and find him, but… When I noticed him, he was so far away – and then, it seemed, he was hit and fell and I… I haven't seen him again...”

She exhaled, feeling the dancing multicolored dots in front of the eyes. The wary face opposite was blurring, barred by subconscious filters, terrible memories that she was afraid to forget.

“I and several other teens were taken away from there, I heard an explosion behind my back. After a couple of days on the road, one of the guards got poisoned and our little bus rolled over. Of the test subjects, I was the only survivor. Of the guards survived one, and I had to,” Rachel grunted grimly, “shoot him with his own gun.”

Jasper blinked but didn't pull away, only gripped her hand more tightly.

“Then Mosley found me. For this, I'm grateful to him for the rest of my life. He brought me to the Society. Now I'm here. The end.”

The calmness in the pre-sundown air was the tranquility she needed. Jasper was shocked, clearly, but wasn't going to let go. She was the one who did it – turning to the sun, she uncoupled their fingers and rose from the ground, adjusting the bag. Behind her, there was a rustle, and the boy jumped up as well, awkwardly ouching. Rachel jumped off the building, knocking the dust out of the litter below.

“Hey, wait, Rach!” He rolled after her. “I, I think he'll come for you! He – your brother – is looking for you and he'll find you and everything will be fine!”

Rachel smirked, shaking her head and scattering long black curls on her shoulders.

“I know, you know – it's all sounds like a wool over the eyes. We aren't children anymore, but,” he shrugged and smiled innocently, chasing her. “Just trust in this, okay? For me.”

 _Just trust, honey_ – her mother wheezed, lying on a hospital bed, a withered mummy with once cheerful green eyes. _Just trust me_ – her brother smiled, going to a new (another) job, and she smiled back at him, keeping her facade exactly until he disappeared behind the turn; bursting into a hysterical weeping in the kitchen. Just trust.

“Okay. I trust you.”

Jasper beamed.

“Oh, then tell me a little bit about him on the way… What's he like, your brother?”

Rachel clapped her hands and giggled, funny wrinkling her nose.

“Oooh, well, first of all, he's suuuuuch a nerd…”

 

Mrs. Cantilupe had retired to her room long before dark, and the only one who threw at Rachel a condemning glance was Sinnett, who took over Mosley's post. She waved it off, tumbling into the tent and wrapping herself in a blanket, tired to death. Sleep, as luck would have it, decided to slip cowardly and Rachel tossed and turned on the sheets, curled and straightened. The steps outside made her open the eyes wide, peering intently into the darkness. Then the fabric of the tent jerked, Jasper's face lit up with a moonlight and the girl relaxed her arms. He didn't sleep. He didn't cry, didn't scream – and didn't sleep, trying in vain to give up to fatigue. Exhausted eyes flashed in the night when he leaned toward her.

“Can I lie with you? I can't sleep with Pennebrygg.”

She blinked and moved.

“Sure.”

He lay down next to her, tucking the tent's canopy again. Folded his arms over his chest, stared up. Said in a minute:

“I could tell a fairytale about werewolves. Always loved them.”

Rachel buried her nose in her hands and nodded portentously.

“Go on.”


End file.
